An anonymous man reflects on the turbulence of his disloyalty. Photo / Getty Images
Sneaking around, family breakdown and never-ending guilt. One man shares the story of his guilt-ridden four-year affair.
Of all the life experiences I’ve clocked up over the decades, nothing has matched the exhilaration of the early months of having a mistress. Climbing Kilimanjaro and experimenting with party drugs in my youth? Not even close. Even the births of my children weren’t such a head rush, a terrible admission but true.
But, and it’s a large “but”, I promise you nothing has made me so physically and mentally unwell as the deceit required when you have a long-term mistress.
Looking back, my life has been clearly divided into two halves – before the affair, and after.
I was a 33-year-old married father of two when I first met Philippa*. She was then just 19, working as a temp at the large telecommunications firm where I was in middle management. She was leggy, blonde and desperately pretty, but funny and sparky, too. Yet along with turning heads, Philippa cheekily batted off the office banter.
I’d been married to Marie,* a stay-at-home mum to our sons aged 11 and 9, for 12 years after getting together at 19, too young really. Our marriage was stale, virtually sexless and I was bored.
“Phil' breezed in like a breath of fresh air. She woke me up. Everyone fancied her, and soon we all stayed later at work until her shift ended, then piled into the pub. Of course Phil enjoyed the attention, but when one colleague came on too heavily, she asked me to make him back off. Ego puffed by the opportunity to be her protector, I gladly intervened. Then asked: “Would you also reject me if I asked you out?” She smiled, “Maybe not”. So I did.
We met – alone – in a different pub days later. The anticipation was as delicious as the date. I remember even referring to “Phil at work” to Marie (knowing she’d assume Phil was male). I just couldn’t help myself saying her name.
Kissing in the corner of that pub garden were the most sexually charged minutes of my life. I grinned for days. “You’re very chipper?” remarked Marie. I lied I was up for promotion. This new, smiley version of me didn’t then feel any guilt, I was buzzing. Date two was in a bistro, and the third date led to sex in the back of a hired transit van in a wood. Hardly classy, but there you go.
For the following 12 months I was intoxicated, grabbing stolen hours wherever we could (usually in my car, sometimes hotels), drawing hearts with our initials on hidden post-it notes at work. Pretending to ignore each other at the Christmas party, then sloping off to the disabled loo. It seems embarrassingly juvenile and tacky now but it was so giddying, my joy spilled into all areas of my life. So I became more gregarious when Marie invited friends round (usually I was “grumpy”) but I was so buoyed up. I didn’t – couldn’t – consider the consequences.
After a year, lying and deception became second nature, though an effort. My wife knew the basic structure of my life. When I worked and when I saw friends or played squash. Having a mistress involved subverting that structure. Shaving half an hour off the work day, playing one fewer set in a squash match, meetings away from the office that “overran” – using those fragments for Phil. Usually in the car. Not only for sex, but just talking, touching, and feeling close.
I am sure today, with mobile phones, emails, WhatsApp, trackable devices and social media, I’d never have managed. In hindsight, that might have been better…
Midway into the second year, the fling with Phil had morphed into something more complicated. By then she was at university in a different city, so concentrating (and not being caught) at work became easier. Returning home to Marie no longer needed an immediate shower. (I continued sharing a bed with my wife, but Marie never questioned why – seeming more relieved – I no longer asked for it.)
By the third year of living this double life, the thrills were replaced by unease – I’d fallen in love with Phil. I feared she’d leave me for a student her own age. I told her I wouldn’t blame her, I wasn’t offering her a real relationship or planning to leave my wife. “You should have flings and fun in your 20s,” I said, thinking I was being magnanimous, despite it making her cry.
When I rang the landline at her shared digs later that week a housemate said Phil was out. I felt bereft, drove to “our” woods and cried for the first time since childhood. It felt like the beginning of the end and I couldn’t cope with losing her.
By then my cheater’s guilt had taken a firm grip. Marie had long nagged me to stop smoking, yet it was only Phil wrinkling her nose at my breath that made me quit.
Sleeping with a younger woman certainly motivated me to shape up, too. Returning home in my squash kit one night, Marie patted my flatter stomach. “You’re looking after yourself,” she smiled approvingly. In reality the only sweat I’d built up that evening was with Phil.
Small jolts like these – changes I’d made for Phil’s sake being noticed and appreciated by Marie – made me feel wretched. When Phil bought deodorant for me to use at her flat, I changed to using the brand fulltime. Marie complimenting my new smell gave me more anxiety than the extramarital sex, strangely.
Of course, my betrayal extended to the whole family. One Sunday morning I missed my oldest’s football match, blaming a conference up north when in fact I was just 19km away.
“I was man of the match,” my boy beamed, proudly. I remember noticing his smattering of acne and fresh downy chin hair which needed shaving. I realised I’d not been present with my sons, and here they were turning into young men. “I wish you’d been there, Dad,” my son added. “I do too,” I replied. Absolutely meaning it.
Feeling like a s*** father I stayed up drinking alone that night – which became a habit Marie hated.
After three and half years of this affair, I knew my feelings for Phil were the real deal. Yes she had youth, looks and intelligence, but it wasn’t just sex. It had gone from being a bit of fun to something else. That scared me.
Looking back now, I feel a physical sensation of hurrying, walking at double time, and scraping together pockets of time for cheating. It was stress I’d never encountered before.
I also felt trapped and confused. Knowing I’d brought it on myself was no comfort. I didn’t have a single friend to talk to. “What’s the matter with you?” demanded Marie during one of our ever more frequent rows. “You’re so distant, are you having an affair or something?” “Don’t be stupid woman,” I instinctively snapped back, essentially “gaslighting” her. Lying became my norm. The deceit was pure torture, but unable to stop. I thought about throwing myself at my wife’s feet sobbing and confessing all.
Instead, I stormed out and drove to Phil’s. Then we too ended up rowing. “I’m such a coward,” I cried to her. Over a lot of tears we decided to end it. Driving home, the despair was so overwhelming I contemplated crashing the car. Instead I stayed in the spare room and on autopilot went into work the next day.
At my desk, I became convinced I was having a heart attack and went to A&E. It was actually a panic attack. I was prescribed anxiety pills and signed off work for two weeks. During that time, I was such a mess and felt so lost I finally told Marie everything. I remember sitting in the living room, trying not to look at the happy family photographs on the wall. I said I’d fallen for someone else and that I was so sorry and that I just didn’t know what to do. As awful as the scene was – her tears, shock, fury and bewilderment – the relief was still immense.
Marie (understandably) kicked me out of the house and insisted I told the boys why. That conversation with them remains the most painful I’ve ever had. Marie and I tried to reconcile for a few months over Christmas but it felt all wrong. My mother dying around then was another blow but also a reminder of how short life is. I rented a bedsit, found a therapist and tried antidepressants.
You might be wondering how it all worked out? Well, I am pleased to say that I’ve now been married to Phil for more than 30 years – and we have two adult children of our own and three grandchildren, too. We both know that we were meant to be together, and as Phil still enjoys pointing out, it “wasn’t just about sex” (which happily, we are still enjoying by the way).
I can honestly say my four-year affair was the hardest period of my life. I don’t recommend it. All I can say is that it got me to where I am now. I’m just so grateful we made it through.
If you need a break from the slopes or don’t fancy a ski, there’s still a lot to do this.